The Complete Yes Minister (10 page)

[
Hacker’s diary continues – Ed
.]

Today we had the big meeting on expenditure cuts. Frank has been ferreting for a couple of weeks. The meeting didn’t actually end the way I thought it would, but we do now have a real programme of action, though not the one I expected.

At the meeting were Sir Humphrey, Bernard, and Frank who had come up with what seemed to be some astounding revelations about wastage in our midst. I told Sir Humphrey that he would be pretty surprised by it all, and that the new facts seemed to be a frightening indictment of bureaucratic sloppiness and self-indulgence.

Sir Humphrey seemed very concerned and intrigued, and was eager to learn where there might be scope for dramatic economies.

Frank had prepared two files, one on Manpower and one on Buildings. I decided to look at Buildings first.

‘Chadwick House,’ I began. ‘West Audley Street.’

‘A huge building,’ said Frank, ‘with only a handful of people working there.’

Sir Humphrey said he happened to know about Chadwick House. ‘It is certainly underused at the moment, but it is the designated office for the new Commission on the Environment. We’re actually wondering if it’ll be big enough when all the staff move in.’

This seemed fair enough. So I went on to Ladysmith Buildings, Walthamstow. It is totally empty.

‘Of course,’ said Sir Humphrey.

I asked him what he meant.

‘Security, Minister, I can say no more.’

‘Do you mean M16?’ I asked.

Sir Humphrey shook his head, and said nothing. So I asked him what he
did
mean.

‘We do not admit that M16 exists,’ he replied.

I’ve never heard anything so daft. I pointed out that absolutely everyone knows that it exists.

‘Nevertheless, we do not admit it. Not everyone around this table has been vetted.’

Vetted is such a silly expression. I remarked that it sounds like something you do to cats.

‘Yes, but not ferrets, Minister,’ said Sir Humphrey sharply, eyeing Frank. ‘Ladysmith Buildings is top secret.’

‘How,’ I asked sarcastically, ‘can a seven-storey building in Walthamstow be a secret?’

‘Where there’s a will there’s a way,’ replied Humphrey, with (I think) a twinkle in his eye. It was all quite amicable, but I could see that he had no intention of discussing anything that was remotely to do with security while Frank was present. I had no intention of asking Frank to leave, so, reluctantly, I was forced to move on to the next two white elephants.

‘Wellington House, Hyde Park Road. Estimated value, seven and a half million pounds. Westminster Old Hall, Sackville Square, estimated value, eleven million pounds. Both buildings with a tiny staff, and entirely full of filing cabinets.’

‘May I ask the source of these valuations?’ Sir Humphrey enquired.

‘Going rate for office property in the area,’ said Frank.

‘Ah.
Unfortunately
,’ said Sir Humphrey in his most helpful tone, ‘neither building would actually fetch the going rate.’

I asked why not.

‘Wellington House has no fire escape or fire doors and the fabric of the building would not stand the alteration, so it can’t be sold as offices.’

‘Then how can
we
use it?’ enquired Frank aggressively.

‘Government buildings do not need fire safety clearance.’

‘Why?’ demanded Frank.

‘Perhaps,’ Humphrey offered, ‘because Her Majesty’s Civil Servants are not easily inflamed.’ This time he chuckled. Another of his little jokes. He seemed to be increasingly pleased with himself. I don’t care for this.

[
In fact, government buildings have to comply with most statutory fire requirements, but not with regard to means of escape! – Ed
.]

We were not getting very far with our economies, so I asked why Westminster Old Hall couldn’t be sold as offices.

‘It’s a Class One listed building. Can’t change current user designation. The Environment, you know.’

We were getting nowhere fast. Frank moved on, and suggested we sold 3 to 17 Beaconsfield Street.

‘That,’ said Sir Humphrey, ‘has a three-level reinforced-concrete basement.’

‘So?’ I said.

‘It is there in case,’ said Sir Humphrey. I waited for him to complete his sentence, but after a while it became apparent that he thought he had already done so.

‘In case?’ I asked eventually.

‘You know, Minister,’ he said, his voice pregnant with hidden meaning. ‘Emergency Government Headquarters, if and when.’

I was baffled. ‘If and when what?’

Humphrey was now at his most enigmatic. ‘If and when . . . you know what,’ he replied so quietly that I could hardly hear him.

‘What?’ I wasn’t sure I’d heard correctly.

‘If and when you know what?’

‘I
don’t
know what,’ I said confused. ‘What?’

‘What?’ Now Sir Humphrey seemed confused.

‘What do you mean, if and when you know what? If and when, I know what –
what
?’

At last Humphrey decided to make his meaning clear. ‘When the chips are down, Minister, and the balloon goes up and the lights go out . . . there has to be somewhere to carry on government, even if everything else stops.’

I considered this carefully for a few moments. ‘Why?’ I asked.

Humphrey appeared to be absolutely staggered by this question. He explained to me, as if I were a backward five-year-old, ‘Government doesn’t stop merely because the country’s been destroyed. Annihilation is bad enough, without anarchy to make it even worse.’

Obviously Humphrey was concerned about the danger of a lot of rebellious cinders.

However, this is clearly an MoD matter [
Ministry of Defence matter – Ed
.] and I can see it is beyond
my
power to do anything about 3 to 17 Beaconsfield Street.

There was one more virtually unused building on Frank’s list. It was my last shot. ‘What about the Central Registry?’ I enquired, without any real hope.

‘No planning permission,’ said Sir Humphrey, with a bland smile of a man who knows he’s won five rounds and is way ahead on points.

Frank suddenly intervened. ‘How does he know all this?’ he enquired belligerently, and turned accusingly to Sir Humphrey. ‘You
knew
where I’d been.’

This hadn’t occurred to me, but Frank was obviously right. I was about to lay into Humphrey on that score, when Humphrey said to me, most disarmingly: ‘Of course we knew where he’d been. Why, was he supposed to be spying?’

I wasn’t ready for that particular googly. I realised at once that I was on a very sticky wicket.

Humphrey pressed home his advantage. ‘I mean, we
do
believe in open enquiries, don’t we?’

There was no answer to this, so, in my most businesslike fashion, I closed the Buildings file. [
In any case, it would have been impossible to sell all these government buildings simultaneously. If you put government property in London on the market all at once, you would destroy the market – like diamonds – Ed
.]

I turned to Manpower. Here, I felt I was on rock-solid ground.

‘Apparently,’ I began, ‘there are ninety civil servants in Sunderland exactly duplicating the work of ninety others here in Whitehall.’

Humphrey nodded. ‘That stems from a cabinet decision. Job Creation in the North-East.’

At last we were in agreement about something. ‘Let’s get rid of them,’ I proposed.

Frank chimed in eagerly, ‘Yes, that would get rid of ninety civil servants at a stroke.’ Somehow, the way Frank spits out the words ‘civil servants’ makes them sound more contemptible than petty thieves. If I were a civil servant I think Frank’s style would offend me, though Sir Humphrey doesn’t seem too bothered, I must say.

But he picked up Frank’s phrase ‘at a stroke’. [
Actually, Edward Heath’s phrase, originally applied to price reductions which, needless to say, never occurred – Ed
.] ‘Or indeed,’ said Sir Humphrey, ‘at a strike.’

‘What?’ I said.

‘Personally, Minister, I should be wholeheartedly in favour of such a move. A considerable economy. But . . . I should remind you that it is a depressed area. Hence the original job creation scheme. It would show great political courage for the government to sack staff in a depressed marginal constituency.’

We sat for a while in silence. I must say, I think it was rather sporting of Humphrey to remind me that a marginal constituency was at stake. Normally civil servants take no interest in those vital political calculations.

Clearly, I couldn’t possibly risk a strike up there. But I was feeling really hopeless about these economies by now. I decided to put the ball back into Humphrey’s court.

‘Look, Humphrey,’ I said, ‘this is all very well . . . but . . . well, I just don’t believe that there are no savings to be made in the Civil Service. I see waste everywhere.’

‘I agree with you, Minister,’ came the reply, much to my surprise. ‘There is indeed scope for economy . . .’

‘Then . . .’ I interrupted, ‘. . .
where
, for God’s sake?’

And to my surprise, Sir Humphrey suddenly became very positive. ‘I sometimes feel that the whole way we do things is on too lavish a scale. You know, cars, furnishings, private office staff, entertainment, duplicating machines. . . .’

This was marvellous. I couldn’t agree more. I nodded enthusiastically.

‘There is a difficulty, however,’ he added. My heart sank again, but I waited to hear what it was. ‘It does cause profound resentment if those at the top continue to enjoy the convenience and comforts they have withdrawn from those below them, not to mention the deeply damaging publicity. . . .’

He broke off, and waited to see how I reacted. I wasn’t awfully keen, I must admit. It became clear that Humphrey’s scheme was that he and I should set a personal example. Economy begins at home, and we can’t expect others to do what we don’t do ourselves, and so forth.

I challenged Humphrey. ‘Would it really save that much?’

‘Directly, no,’ he said. ‘But as an example to the whole public service . . . incalculable!’

Then Frank came up with the decisive argument in favour of Humphrey’s plan. He pointed out that there would be lots of great publicity in it. He suggested the sort of newspaper headlines we’d be getting: THE MINISTER SHOWS THE WAY, or SLIMLINE GOVERNMENT, HACKER SETS EXAMPLE. We might even get a first-name headline: SAVE IT, SAYS JIM.

I gave Humphrey the okay to put the scheme into practice as soon as possible. I shall be interested to see how it works. At this moment, I have high hopes.

Sunday morning. I’m writing this at home, in the constituency.

Haven’t had time to make any entries in the diary for some days because this economy drive is creating a lot of extra work for me. However, I’m sure it’s all going to be worth it.

It was a dreadful journey home on Friday night. I got home in the middle of the night. Annie had gone to bed. Apparently she’d made supper for us, and it had spoiled.

I’d tried to get a taxi to get me from Whitehall to Euston, but there was a thunderstorm and no taxis were available. So I’d gone by tube, carrying three red boxes which are immensely heavy when filled, and I’d missed the train at Euston. So I got home very tired and wet.

I apologised for waking Annie, and told her about my troublesome journey.

‘What happened to the chauffeur-driven car?’ she asked anxiously.

‘I’ve got rid of it,’ I explained proudly. ‘I’ve also got rid of the chauffeur, all the grand office furniture, and the drinks cabinet, and half my private office staff.’

‘You’ve been sacked!’ she said. Annie often jumps to the most ridiculous alarmist conclusions. I explained that it was an economy drive and that I was setting an example of no frills, no luxuries and no privileges.